


Swindle's Petro-bunny Legion of Doom

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Swindle shows off his latest purchase to a perplexed Vortex.</p><p>Set on Cybertron before the war, when Vortex and Blast Off worked for Onslaught, and Swindle occasionally worked with them.</p><p>Cracky genfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Vortex paused on his way through the main hangar. "What the slag is that?"

Swindle beamed, and thrust the little drone at his face. "It's a petro-rabbit."

"It _is_?" Vortex didn't sound impressed.

"Sure," Swindle replied. "You ain't never seen a petro-bunny before? Ain't it adorable?"

The petro-rabbit wiggled its olfactory sensors, and flicked one of its oddly articulated floppy antennae with a tiny, blunt paw.

Vortex poked it in the eye.

"Don't do that!" Swindle yanked it out of arm's reach. The drone squeaked and squirmed; trying to hide its face in the crook of Swindle's arm. "They're not sentient, but they still got sensor relays." He winced; its hind legs packed quite a punch.

"Hehe, that's kinda funny." Vortex moved closer and grabbed an antenna; the bunny flinched. "Hey look, these things bend! Where'd you get it?"

"Quintessa," Swindle said, without thinking. Frag.

"Quintessa. Right."

Swindle wanted to kick himself, although the petro-rabbit was doing a good enough job for the both of them. He knew not to let his guard down around Vortex, and yet... there he was, letting his guard down around Vortex.

"Yeah." He forged ahead, as though trading with the Quintessons wasn't a seriously dodgy act that even Onslaught's organisation thought twice before doing. "Got a job lot. They'll sell like crank shafts. Towers mechs'll be clamouring to get at 'em."

Vortex continued to fondle the antenna; when he spoke, his tone carried just the faintest hint of a threat. "Why?"

"They got a fad going for mock-organic hunting preserves. Got turbo foxes, petro-deer, all that slag." Swindle shrugged, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "These'll fit right in. Gonna make a packet.” He winked. “Could treat you to a nice new set of rotors."

Vortex's optics narrowed; this close, they were just about visible through the tinted glass of his visor. "No, you couldn't."

Swindle sighed. "Why do you always have to be so difficult?"

"Oh, I dunno. Could be that comment you made about preferring an exclusive deal."

Swindle rolled his optics. That was vorns ago; damn, the copter could hold a grudge.

The petro-bunny tried to wrench its antenna from Vortex's grip, and he snickered. "How many did you buy?"

"Twenty thousand," Swindle replied before thinking. "Give or… take." Slag, he'd done it again.

"Does Blast Off know you're storing them in here?" Vortex finally let the petro-bunny go, not that this stopped it kicking.

"How'd you know I am?" Swindle couldn't help a guilty glance towards the stack of crates closest to the hangar door.

"That,” Vortex said. “And those weren't there last time Blast Off got unloaded." He jerked a thumb at the crates. "So, you've gone and bought a job lot of twenty thousand useless drones, purely on the strength of Towers mechs having a chip loose and thinking stuff modelled on dumb organics is cute?"

Swindle grinned. "Not quite." He turned the petro-bunny over - suppressing a snicker as Vortex pulled back to avoid getting kicked in the face - and pressed a button on its rounded side. Its abdominal plating parted, revealing motors and circuitry, and a sizable cavity where there was absolutely nothing at all.

The drone glanced down at its own innards, then went limp.

“Playing dead,” Vortex commented, prodding an inert little paw. “Neat.”

Swindle's grin widened. "You think that’s neat, just listen to this. Each petro-bunny can carry enough explosives to level a tower. Plus, they each got a timer and a small device for remote control. There's also a pre-programming option, where you get to dictate their movements over up to 3000 klicks, regardless of the terrain. You impressed yet?"

Vortex shrugged. "No."

Liar, Swindle thought, but he wasn't about to call him on it. A side door opened, and they both glanced up, but it was only Blast Off. The shuttle gave the new crates a suspicious glare.

"Hey, thrusters!" Vortex beckoned him over. "Look what Swindle bought."

Blast Off's glare shifted from the crates to Swindle to the petro-rabbit, completely ignoring Vortex. He froze.

"What the slag is that?"


	2. Contraband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vortex has a problem, and Blast Off fixes it for him.
> 
> Contains: death of an unnamed Quintesson, implied violence, alien gore, talk of slash, implied Blast Off/Vortex.

“Oh slag no,” Vortex said. “I’m not touching that.”

Blast Off, for once, didn’t sigh. He didn’t flap his ailerons impatiently, or make his cannons hum in a half-veiled threat. Instead, he simply glared at the sorry heap of organic matter flailing its tentacles on the floor of the storage bay. And glared some more.

“You’ll have to,” he said eventually. “You want Onslaught to know you did that? And here?”

“Frag no!” Vortex grimaced, glad that his expression was concealed behind his visor. The tentacles continued to writhe, a greenish liquid oozing from a dozen scrapes and lacerations. It had been fine before he’d broken them; they’d been kinda fun to handle then. But that… stuff coming out of them, it turned his tanks. Vortex took a step back. “You do it.”

“I’d rather not,” Blast Off said, in the same tone that Brawl might have used to say ‘slag off and die’.

“The drone can do it!” Vortex backed up a little more. How much pus could come out of one alien, anyway? It was horrific.

“What?” Blast Off said. “That drone you broke and never took to repair bay? Or maybe it’s some other drone that I don’t know about?”

“Slag slag slag slag slag!” Vortex edged around the ever-growing puddle. “Thrusters,” he began, ignoring Blast Off’s irritated sigh. “You get rid of this for me, and I’ll do you so hard you won’t even know what city you're in. How about it?”

And now came the flutter of ailerons, and the cautionary whine of the occasionally-orbital death lasers. Why the slag didn’t it work with Blast Off? They’d interfaced. Loads. It _should_ work. It had even worked on Onslaught once. But the shuttle seemed impervious to his obvious charms.

“It’s your mess,” Blast Off said. “You clean it…” He stopped, then stooped, looking a little closer at the mess of mangled flesh and fragments of cybernetic tech. “This isn’t a legal alien. Where did you find this Quintesson?”

Vortex shrugged.

“Where,” Blast Off said, turning the full scrutiny of his optical sensors onto the copter. “Did. You. Find. This. Quintesson.”

“He, uh…” Vortex began to regret moving to Blast Off’s side of the ichor. “He followed me here?”

“No,” Blast Off said. “No, he didn’t. Where did you find him?”

Vortex vacillated. If he told Blast Off, the chances of Onslaught finding out were pretty high, but if he didn’t tell Blast Off, the chances of him getting any sweet shuttle action in the near future were next to nothing. “Crates,” Vortex said. “In with the bunny bombs from Quintessa.”

For a moment, he thought that Blast Off was going to punch him. Instead, the shuttle opened his comm. link. “Swindle, this is Logistics, pick up.”

A tiny green and purple hologram sprang to life, complete with a tiny pink energon cube. “Hey, Blast Aft, what can I do you for?”

“That,” Blast Off snarled, and pointed. The energon cube vanished, accompanied by a rather loud smashing sound. “It came in with that shipment of contraband from that planet you were expressly forbidden from trading with.”

“Ah,” Swindle said. “Now, y’see-”

Vortex went to lean into Swindle’s field of vision, but one of Blast Off’s leg cannons swivelled in his direction. He got the message, and stayed where he was.

“No,” Blast Off said. “ _You_ see. There’s a dying Quintesson in Storage Bay Delta. A dying Quintesson that would neither be dying, nor in Storage Bay Delta if you hadn’t allowed it to stow away in _your_ contraband.”

Swindle’s little holographic mouth moved, but the comm’s speaker remained silent.

“Do the decent thing and come clean it up,” Blast Off said. “Or I will personally hunt you down and shoot you in the head. Do you understand?”

“Uh… yes?” Swindle said. Blast Off’s engine rumbled, and Swindle began to nod. “Yeah, sure, OK, I’m leaving now!” The little hologram flickered and died.

On the floor, the tentacles twitched, then seemed to fold in on themselves. Vortex snickered. “You,” he said, “are magnificent.”

Blast Off’s engine continued to rumble, but the pitch had changed. Not angry any more, just amused, and maybe a hint of something better. “And you,” he said, “are leaving. We both are. Unless you want Swindle to know he’s been duped.”

Vortex gave the Quintesson one last, disgusted glance. “Good plan,” he said, the final word morphing into a yelp as Blast Off brushed against his rotor hub. Not that it wasn’t welcome, it was just completely unexpected.

“Now then,” Blast Off said. “I seem to remember something about a reward.”


End file.
